


another cup of java

by Zercalo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Drifter Derek, M/M, Seasonal Worker Derek, Waiter Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 15:58:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zercalo/pseuds/Zercalo
Summary: There is nothing left for Derek in this town, so he’s leaving.





	another cup of java

  
  
  


The wind’s sharp with the promise of snow as Derek crosses the mostly deserted street. His socks inside the beaten-up shoes are wet and cold, as they’ve been for a while now, and he doesn’t hesitate to push the door and enter the sad little place.

 

It’s warm inside, bright with blinking holiday decoration and yellow overhead lights. Derek’s fingers are tight around his cheap one-way ticket as he looks around for a free seat. The place is not full, even as small as it is; not by any means. A few people look up at the sound of the door. It’s only for a second before they turn back to their company, their lives -  and Derek can almost see Laura impatiently waving him over from behind the counter.

 

But of course she’s not. 

 

He closes the glass door behind him, ignores the the total of two empty booths to take a seat in the back at the only table for two. He can see the bus station from here, through the remaining letters of the sign on the windows. The old red vinyl chair is lumpy and uncomfortable, and it makes a wet sound when he sits down. His bus isn’t for hours still, but it’s reassuring, somehow, to keep an eye on the station.

 

He lets his bag fall on the floor next to his feet and breathes in deeply. Stale oil and burnt coffee are thick in the air, and underneath that are all the people that pass through. It feels familiar, but uncomfortable, like something he knows well but isn’t sure he wants any longer.

 

The place is warm but he keeps the jacket on, doesn’t even unzip it.

 

Then the waiter comes over. He smells like he’s bathed in cheap coffee, but also like exhaustion and hospital, like someone much older than his face. When Derek meets his eyes over the tip of the pen, there’s a timeworn smile there.

 

“Hey there, world traveler,” he says, voice bright and - mocking, maybe? Derek looks down at the stupid hand-made patch Laura sewed onto the bag back when it used to belong to her and pushes it further under the table, out of sight. “What can I get you?”

 

It’s hours still before his bus is supposed to leave so Derek says, “Coffee.”

 

The waiter comes back quickly with a cup for him, opens his mouth like he’s about to say something. Derek waits, unsure he wants the conversation - unsure he knows how to have one, after all these months - but in the end, the guy just pours him his coffee, hand sure and swift, enticing. 

 

Derek watches him go to another table, shoulders bent like the oversized plaid shirt he’s wearing weighs a ton and a half. Young but troubled. He’s not wearing a uniform, not even an apron - and not wrapping this guy into something cheap and distractingly bright sounds like some sort of violation of code to Derek.

 

The coffee is terrible but still hot. It burns his tongue, the hurt bitter and sharp for a moment before it disappears. 

 

It starts to snow outside. The flakes are small and wet and they turn into dirty water as soon as they touch the ground. Some cars pass down the street but people are rare, and the few that pass the windows are wrapped tightly in a feeble attempt to guard their frail bodies against the biting wind.

 

The snow turns into rain. Derek’s had enough of rain to last him a lifetime so he turns his attention back to the inside, where it’s dry and warm. He’s heard the door open and close a few times, but he’s still surprised that he’s one of the very few customers left. 

 

“Here’s daddy, baby, he’s come to take us home,” says the woman sitting near the entrance, as she picks up her coat and her small child. The young boy nods his head sleepily and then frowns at the moonless sky outside like it’s somehow betrayed him. They leave with a wave at the waiter, who pauses wiping a table to give them a fond, familiar smile. 

 

Now Derek is the only one left.

 

It’s a bit unnerving, especially with the looks the waiter keeps throwing him, but the sign on the door says they work until ten so he doesn’t care. 

 

“If you want to eat before your trip,” says the waiter finally after Derek gets fed up with him and glares, “you should do it now. The radio says there’s a storm coming, and we often get blackouts when the weather's like this.”

 

That sounds reasonable enough, and Derek is hungry. He leaves the little table to sit at the counter. It will be easier to keep the diner food down if he’s further away from the restroom.

 

“Is the weather often like this up here?”

 

The waiter is happy enough to answer, even though he seems suspicious of Derek’s question - or maybe Derek in general. “Wet and freezing? Yeah, quite often.” He offers one of the smudged plastic menus over the counter. There are remains of blue nail polish on two of his fingernails. Derek keeps looking at his hands as they move away. “You’re not from around here.”

 

It’s not exactly a question, but there is a curiosity there. 

 

“No,” Derek says, deliberately looks down at his menu.

 

The disappointed sigh comes after a bit. “Right. Well, we’ve got…” The lights flicker a few times. The electricity doesn’t go out, but the lights come back weaker, yellow. The waiter sighs again, finishes the sentence, “Sandwiches. We’ve got really good sandwiches that don’t need cooking.”

 

“Fine.”

 

A head shows from the kitchen, frown deep and worried. “I need to head home, Stiles. Can you handle this and lock up?”

 

Derek is uncommonly glad he’s got a name to use in his head as the waiter reassures his coworker and sends him away. 

 

“He’s got a baby, he has to pick her up from the neighbor before the electricity goes out,” Stiles tells Derek quietly, like he’s offering an excuse. The cook makes little noise in the back as he wraps things up in the kitchen, dresses quickly and leaves through a back door. 

 

Derek turns a little so he can see the lonely bus station across the street. The wind has picked up, fierce and loud.

 

“I guess you’re taking the midnight bus?”

 

“If the storm doesn’t disrupt the traffic.”

 

Stiles looks outside, into the angry evening. “It’ll blow over by then. What kind?”

 

It takes a second for Derek to place the odd flicker of the wrist. “Any kind, I don’t care.” 

 

He really doesn’t care about the type of the sandwich because the last time he ate was that dry muffin early this morning. Stiles grabs one of the few premade ones left and unwraps it. It smells a little stale, like it’s been at the room temperature all day, but still edible. Stiles puts it on the plate and in front of Derek, then opens another one for himself. 

 

“On the house. I just take them home with me at the end of the day anyway,” Stiles says, looks up with an ungracious, ill-suited smile, “My boss likes me.”

 

They eat in silence for a while and it’s almost funny, the way Stiles grows more and more restless with every minute that passes, like not talking is an actual physical discomfort for him. He breaks in the end, even sooner than Derek has expected him to, with a nod, “So where are you going?” 

 

He’s eying Derek’s left hand, where he’s still clutching the bus ticket like a lifeline. This town hasn’t been that bad for him, it’s been a peaceful six months of working at the lake just outside of town. But when the fall came, there was less and less work available for him until Derek finally ran out of the reasons to stay and bought the ticket. 

 

He leaves it now on the counter. Stiles cocks his head to read what it says. If he finds on it something interesting or unexpected, he keeps it to himself and takes another bite from his sandwich. 

 

“Are you coming back?”

 

People usually give up on him answering sooner or later, so to make sure that this doesn’t happen now, Derek forces himself to say, “Maybe next summer.”

 

It’s unlikely, but not impossible he’ll come back. Stiles brightens up, “Yeah, it’s really nice here in summer. The lake is great for swimming - we sometimes pinch tents on the other side, away from the tourists,  and spend days out there.  Well, not this summer, but you know.”

 

Derek doesn’t really know, but he can still smell the lingering scents of the hospital yet no sign of illness, so he can guess. Stiles had to work this summer.

 

“It’s…” Derek searches for something to say, so the conversation doesn’t die off and all he manages is, “it’s good work.”

 

He gets a tired smile for his efforts. The lights flicker again, but they come back on brighter this time. The wind’s still howling outside.

 

“So where are you going to next?”

 

“There’s a small ski resort up north,” Derek says. Those places always need seasonal workers in winter and he handles the cold well.

 

“Oh, yeah. I’ve never been there, but yeah. I guess that’s a good place.”

 

Derek finishes the last of his sandwich. The chemicals in the ham are sharp on his tongue, but he’s still hungry.

 

“Whoa there,” Stiles laughs, leans sideways to grab the last sandwich. “Don’t eat the plate now.”

 

He pushes the sleeves of his shirt up before he starts unwrapping it with practiced hands. A small cut on Stiles’ palm is healing slowly. It’s red and raw right now, still fresh. 

 

Stiles watches him eat his second sandwich for a bit before he says, “I’m gonna put the closed sign on now. I still have to clean up and stuff, so you can stay a while longer, okay?”

 

Derek’s left foot is still uncomfortably wet and he’s not about to refuse to wait in a warm place. “Thanks.”

 

Stiles offers him another cup of coffee. Derek says yes just to watch him pour it - it’s the way that he leans and bends his wrist, eyes carefully on the task, that’s worth the bitterness. He keeps watching as Stiles walks around the diner, dims the lights, locks the door and wipes the tables.

 

There’s no denying the pull, the sharp clawing low in his stomach and the duller ache in his chest, but he’s already bought the ticket. He’s leaving.

 

“You haven’t told me your name,” Stiles says, cleaning the counter in front of Derek. It doesn’t really sound like a question but it feels like one. Derek doesn’t remember when was the last time anyone really wanted to know his name so he introduces himself. 

 

Stiles wipes his hand quickly on his jeans and offers his hand. Taken aback, Derek hesitates just a second - not enough for Stiles to change his mind - before he takes it. It’s a little dump but warm, long fingers wrapping firmly around Derek’s.

 

Stiles frowns, slides his grip to swipe his thumb over the softer part of Derek’s palm, just below his fingers, right where the calluses should be. He doesn’t say anything about it, though, doesn’t break the eye contact, not even when he lets go.

 

“You know, there’s seasonal work here too. In winter, I mean. You don’t have to leave town.”

 

That’s another thing Derek hasn’t received in a while - an invitation to stay.

 

“Bought a ticket already.” 

 

Stiles hums, rearranges some items on the counter. The lights blink and disappear.

 

The darkness is so thick, it takes even Derek a few blinks to adjust. He can see Stiles just well enough to notice the stiffness of his posture, the arms that seem to be looking for something. His heartbeat is elevating, the scent of acid fear rising.  

 

Derek reaches and wraps his hand around Stiles’ wrist, as gently as he can, trying to ground him. It helps.

 

“You should go home. It’s getting late, I’ll wait at the station.”

 

Stiles holds his breath, lets it out. It’s so loud in the darkness. He says, “I’ll unlock for you.”

 

Their hands separate as Stiles feels his way around the counter. His eyes are getting used to it, but slowly, so Derek uses the time to grab his things. He takes Stiles by the elbow on his way to the door to save him from tripping over a chair, can’t really make himself remove it as they stop for Stiles to dig out the keys.

 

The door clicks open. It’s cold outside.

 

Derek lets go. He clears his throat, “Thank you.”

 

He zips up his jacket - just because he doesn’t get cold so easily doesn’t mean he wants his shirt wet. He looks once again over his shoulder, at Stiles squinting at him like he can finally maybe see him a little and turns to leave.

 

The hand on his belt is not enough to stop him, but the intention behind it is. Stiles leans closer, finds the back of Derek’s neck with his nose and rubs it there like it’s itchy. His breath tickles, so warm and sweet. “You could just - just stay.”

 

Derek doesn’t walk out. He wants to stay, he really does. 

 

Stiles moves closer, chest warm. He traces Derek’s arm until he finds his hand, the ticket. “I had to sell my house, I’m renting a room upstairs. There’s hot water, we could watch a movie on my laptop or something.  _ Stay _ .”

 

The ticket doesn’t fall on the floor when Derek lets it go, not before Stiles crumples it. 

 

It might not lead anywhere. It probably won’t end well. But Derek closes the door and turns around slowly, inhales and then lets the air go, unburdened for the moment.

 

For now, at least - he’ll stay.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by the song “Invitation to the Blues” (Tom Waits), which got stuck in my head and wouldn’t leave me alone.


End file.
